


If My Love Was A Sailor

by Jiksa



Series: Rooftops & rowing boats [2]
Category: BBC Radio 1 RPF, British Writer RPF, One Direction (Band)
Genre: And Having Some Sex, Anxiety, F/M, Just A Couple Of Kids Who are Definitely Not Freaking Out, Meeting the Parents, Sexual Identity
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-08-13
Updated: 2017-08-13
Packaged: 2018-12-13 07:20:00
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,404
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11754846
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Jiksa/pseuds/Jiksa
Summary: Nick’s not freaking out.Definitelynot freaking the absolute ever-loving fuck out.





	If My Love Was A Sailor

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Catateme9](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Catateme9/gifts), [fightingforlarry](https://archiveofourown.org/users/fightingforlarry/gifts).



> Sequel to [And Love The Aftertaste.](https://archiveofourown.org/works/11128155) Thanks to [Cateateme9](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Catateme9) and [fightingforlarry](https://archiveofourown.org/users/fightingforlarry) for inspiration, cheerleading and reading it over before posting. Pls blame them for this. ♥
> 
> Warnings: Set before Robin passed away, with no mention of his illness. Light-hearted jokes about shotguns, a non-graphic on-screen panic attack, and one fleeting mention of abusive dynamics in a past relationship.

“You’re freaking out.”

“I’m not freaking out.”

“Babe,” Gemma sighs loudly, and Nick tightens his grip on the paper bag in his hands, trying in vain to breathe like someone who most definitely is not freaking the absolute everloving fuck out. “It’s okay if you’re freaking out.”

“I know,” Nick argues, breathing deep into his belly. Fuck, he should’ve actually tried to learn something in those yoga classes instead of just ogling the fit teacher for ages and coming up with increasingly elaborate schemes to get his number. “I’m not freaking out, though.”

Nick can almost hear Gemma roll her eyes as she leans back against the side of his Jeep. Of all the places Nick could have chosen to not freak out about going home to meet his girlfriend’s parents, a passenger seat on the shoulder of the M1 on a Friday afternoon certainly isn’t up there. They’d barely made it past Northampton before his lungs caved in. “It’s the asthma.”

“Then where’s your fucking inhaler?”

“Has anyone ever told you you have the bedside manner of a wolverine? It’s in my satchel.”

Nick tries to focus on one of the sheep grazing lazily on the adjacent field as she digs through the backseat. It’s a particularly blurry sheep, a little wet around the edges, everything black around it like Nick maybe has a little bit of tunnel vision. _Definitely_ asthma, this.

He doesn’t know what possessed them to think this was a good idea, the two of them going back to Holmes Chapel for family dinner and spending the night in Gemma’s old room like what they’re doing is normal and okay and fine, like Gemma can just bring Nick home as her — _person_ — and Nick can pass the potatoes to her step dad and listen to her mother talk about the rose bushes and the world won’t fucking cave in.

Her hand on his leg startles him. He looks down at where she’s crouched in front of him, taking in the worried crease of her brows, the tension in her shoulders, the way her mouth looks all pinched and confusing. “We can go back to London,” she says, rubbing his knee through the tattered denim of his jeans. “We don’t have to do this.”

“I want to,” Nick lies, lowering the paper bag she’d hastily emptied when he’d started hyperventilating and they’d had to pull the car over. There are four scones scattered on the asphalt by his feet, one half eaten because Nick got peckish waiting for her to get out of work earlier this afternoon. “There’s just, like, a lot of pollen in the air.”

Gemma holds up his inhaler. “You know this’ll just make you feel worse if it isn’t asthma,” she says. “But you can tell me if you’re freaking out, and then we can turn back around or get some crisps at the petrol station and listen to Frank Ocean until you feel better.”

“I’m.” Nick ducks his head, unable to hold her gaze. He’s so fucking gone for her at the best of times; trying to play it cool when he’s a mess and she’s all soft and beautiful and kind to him is nearly impossible. “I’m maybe freaking out. Just a little.”

“Jesus fucking Christ,” Gemma hisses, cupping his cheeks and pressing a kiss to his forehead, his cheek, his mouth. She shakes his shoulders a little. “Why are you like this? It’s okay if you’re nervous.”

Nick tips forward to lean against her, letting her hold his weight. Her arms are soft and small and strong around him. “What if they hate me?”

“They already know you, and they don’t hate you.”

Nick shakes his head. “That’s before they knew I was slipping it to their daughter.”

“Believe me, mom was pretty convinced you were slipping it to Haz for a good long while, and she still didn’t hate you.”

“Why does everyone always—”

“Because you two are weirdly codependent and my brother’s a slag. And, well, sorry love, but so are you.”

Nick wishes he could argue, wishes he was better boyfriend material, someone mature and together that Gemma could be proud to bring home. “Not anymore, I'm not.”

She strokes his hair back, fixing his quiff or maybe just… petting him. “You're still a slag, just… only for me.”

“Well isn't this some romance novel shit.”

Her eyes soften a little. “Are you going to be sick?”

Nick takes a deep breath and shakes his head. The worst of it's eased off now, he's just exhausted and embarrassed and a little dizzy. “I'm sorry for…” And then he just says it before he can really consider whether it's a reasonable thing to say. “I just don't want to let you down.”

Gemma bites down on her lip and reaches for his hand. It's so odd, how she can be so soft and so hard all at once. “There's just a lot of pollen, babe. You're okay.”

“Yeah.” Nick squeezes her fingers between his. ”Let's go, your mum’ll be waiting.”

“If you’re sure you’re okay. We can try again another time if that’s better.”

Nick looks past her at the scattered scones. He really, really doesn’t want to let her down. “No, I want to.”

“Alright.” Gemma gets back in the driver's seat, pulls her seatbelt over her torso and clicks it in. She rests a forearm on the steering wheel, the fingers of her other hand hesitating on the keys in the ignition. “They're not gonna hate you, okay? _I_ don't hate you.”

“I know.” Mostly. Sometimes. Maybe.

“God, Nick. You have no idea how much I don't hate you.”

It's quiet then, like she’s expecting Nick to say something, but she’s not meeting his eyes and he’s inconveniently tongue-tied. They should’ve picked up the scones. He hates littering. He doesn’t hate her either, but the mere thought of saying that out loud makes his chest seize up, even if he's sure she already knows.

The sound system roars back to life when she turns the keys, and then she puts the blinkers on and turns the car back onto the motorway. Blackbear sings _I have hella feelings for you_ and _I’m so fucking scared_ and _maybe you’re too good for me_ , because hell is having his feelings broadcast over a car stereo while he sits there, unable to express them in any meaningful way.

She reaches for his hand somewhere after the M6 turn-off, though, just once while she's changing gears, and Nick thinks she might have heard him anyway.

 

—

 

Dinner is lovely. Anne’s lovely, Robin’s lovely, Gemma is funny and relaxed and beautifully at home, and Nick… lets his shoulders come down somewhere after his second glass of wine, after Anne’s told a truly embarrassing story about eleven-year-old Gemma’s internet search history popping up on the family computer. Gemma’s cheeks are a bright, lovely crimson as she tries to defend her eleven-year-old ambitions of protecting the rural Cheshire hellmouth as Gemma Styles: Vampire Slayer.

Nick helps Robin with the dishes while Anne and Gemma finish the wine bottle on the sofa. He talks to Nick about work and films and fishing, and it’s like it’s been every single time Nick’s been there before, except this time Robin knows that Nick’s seen Gemma naked.

 _So_ naked. Nick can’t help but think _I’ve gone down on your step daughter and you’re handing me bowls to dry like there’s any way these two things can co-exist without everything imploding._

He’s still a bit fuzzy on the mechanics of heterosexual courtship, but he keeps half-expecting Robin to ask about Nick’s _intentions_ or casually mention that he owns a shotgun and won’t be afraid to use whenever Nick inevitably fucks this up. He hasn’t gotten threatening yet, but Nick has a creeping suspicion that he’s lulling Nick into a false sense of security first.

He’d be right to be concerned, is the thing. Nick doesn’t know what the fuck he’s doing. This week alone, he’s googled, “being in love vs having a panic attack, differential diagnosis please” “how to tell if the girl you’re shagging is your girlfriend or if she’s secretly trying to break up with you behind your back because you’re fucking terrible” and “what does it mean if the only person in the entire fucking world you want to kiss is a girl, and she’s fit as fuck and you think about her ALL THE TIME, but the only porn that gets you off is big hairy blokes fucking.”

He’s wondered, however briefly, if he should be asking these questions to a trained professional instead of a search engine text box.

When the last of the dishes have been put away and they return to the living room, Gemma stops abruptly in the middle of whatever she was just telling her mum, a faint pink blooming in her cheeks. Nick doesn’t ask what he’s interrupted, but Anne hides an unmistakable grin behind a cough and insists it’s time for charades. Robin and Anne beat Nick and Gemma by about twenty points, but Nick can’t help how charmed and distracted he is by Gemma’s terrible miming and shrieking laughter and how she swats excitedly at his thigh every time he guesses something right. (Both times.)

After he’s managed to guess _Noah’s Ark_ from a bizarre display of animal sounds, Gemma cups his face in both hands and kisses him, quick and hard and wet, like they aren’t still losing spectacularly, like her parents aren’t right there, like Nick’s an acceptable person for her to be kissing in front of anyone else. It makes his heart feel too big for his chest.

Gemma leads him upstairs once they’ve lost, and Nick can’t help but hesitate on the landing. He’s only ever taken a right at the end of the hallway, into Harry’s room, but Gemma opens the door directly across from it. She arches an eyebrow at where he’s frozen, his bag in one hand and his phone in the other.

“Nick?” she asks gently, reaching out a hand. “C’mon, time for bed.”

“I could sleep in Harry’s room,” he says stupidly. “I wouldn’t mind.”

“Why would you—” Gemma sighs. “Come on, don’t be a pillock.”

“I wouldn’t mind,” Nick repeats. “If this is weird.”

“I _would_ mind.” She flicks the light on in her room and waves for him to come inside. “Come on, it’s not weird.”

He reluctantly follows her. Her room’s girlier than Harry’s, with half-burnt candles on the nightstand and giggling pictures on the walls and a fuzzy pink blanket draped over the bed. It’s so wildly different from her flat in London, with its clean lines and sleek, monochrome fittings, bold patterns and in-your-face artwork. His legs are still bruised from the number of times he’s bumped into the unnecessarily harsh corners of her aggressively Scandinavian furniture.

He thinks idly about the places and stories and experiences that separate the girl who lived in this bedroom with the one that lives in London. It’s a weird juxtaposition: his strong, fierce, hardened Gemma set against the backdrop of the soft, carefree, little girl she definitely isn’t anymore. She’s told him a few stories about the boys who pushed her around at uni and the shit she’s gotten as Harry’s sister over the years and all the ways she’s had to toughen up since. Somehow, it feels like he’s barely scratched the surface, though.

Gemma sighs, sitting down on the bed to take her stockings off. She rubs her naked feet against the plush carpet. “Okay, what’s wrong?”

“Nothing.”

“For actual fuck’s sake.”

Nick blurts, “No one’s ever taken me home with them before.”

“You’ve been here a million times already.”

“Yeah, as Harry’s random, annoying mate from London who won’t shut up about how fit Jake Gyllenhaal is. Not as your… _you know_.”

Gemma face softens as she pats the spot beside her on the bed. “Come here.”

He sits beside her, the soft bed dipping under his weight. “Like, are we supposed to sleep with our pajamas buttoned all the way up, on opposite sides of the bed, in case they walk in on us? Does Robin even own a shotgun?”

“Why would they— God, you drive me mental, sometimes.” Gemma wraps both arms around his waist and leans her chin on his shoulder, nuzzling his ear. “Even if the house was on fire, they’d knock first. We’re safe. We can do everything the way we usually do it.”

“And the shotgun?”

“I’m not aware of any shotguns.” She’s smiling; he can hear it in her voice, even if he can’t see it. “Let’s get some sleep, babe, it’s been a long day.”

Nick nods, leaning into her. But he can’t just — he has to know. “Was it okay? Before? Was I okay?”

“I mean, you could’ve probably looked at my tits a little less, but otherwise—”

Nick covers his face with his hands, blushing furiously. “Oh, Jesus fucking Christ—”

“ _Hey,_ hey, bad joke. Bad joke. I’m kidding.” She peels his hands off her face, linking their fingers together in his lap. “They loved you, you were funny and brilliant and truly, stupidly charming. Total dream to bring home.”

He turns to look at her, at her smiling eyes and her wine-stained mouth and her beautiful freckles. _Fuck_ , he wants to believe her. “You’re the literal worst.”

“I just wanted to make you laugh,” she whispers, pressing her face close to his again. “Now be a gentleman and help me out of this dress. Zipper’s too high for me.”

Nick brushes her hair aside and finds the zipper, lowering it carefully down her back. Her skin’s so pale, covered in freckles and beauty spots, so deliciously soft under his wandering hands. He presses his mouth to the top of her spine, tracing the bones of her vertebrae and skimming past a green lace bra he’s never seen before. “You’re so lovely.”

She tips her head up to smile at him, her eyes going a little soft and squinty. “Yeah?”

He nods helplessly. “So, so lovely.”

She rises slowly to stand in front of him, her knees bumping against his, folding her shoulders forward until the dress falls into her hands. She peels it slowly, _so slowly_ , down over her small breasts, over her soft stomach, down over her wide hips. It falls to the floor with a muted crush. She carefully steps out of it and kicks it to the side.

Nick doesn’t know where to look — at her bright, brave eyes, at her parted lips, at her nipples visible through the sheer lace of her lingerie, at her round arse filling out her lacey underthings. She’s a fucking feast; he’s never going to have his fill.

She drops one knee to the mattress between his legs, pressing close until her breasts are in his face and her thigh’s pressed firmly against his groin.

Nick is suddenly, inconveniently and desperately hard. “What’re you doing?” he hisses, glancing nervously at the door. “Your parents are right downstairs.”

“Shh,” she says, lowering the strap of her bra until it the lace slips scandalously off one breast. She cocks her head to the side, a dimple popping in her cheek when she smiles at him. “Just undressing.”

Nick’s mouth waters, his hands reaching out to touch her sides. “Undressing.”

“Mm,” she says, turning around and slowly — _so fucking slowly_ — lowering herself onto his lap. She drops her head back onto his shoulder, arching her back and grinding down against his erection. She moans when his fingers graze her bared nipple, and when Nick covers her mouth with one hand, she sucks two of his fingers into her mouth. “Please.”

He gets her off with one hand over her gasping mouth and the other between her legs, two fingers hooked inside her and his thumb slipping wetly over her clit. She sucks him deep and slow after that, maddeningly taking her time while he holds her sweat-damp hair between his hands and tries to keep quiet. She teases him until he’s sweating, gasping, and then her fingers slip behind his balls and he comes so hard he’s seeing stars. She comes once more after that, writhing on the sheets with Nick’s fingers inside her and his mouth swallowing her moans.

Afterwards, they curl up under the blankets and listen to the trees rustling outside the window, the roof creaking in the wind, the countryside quiet around them. Tangled, naked and spent, slightly to the left of the wet spot Nick’s secretly kind of proud of.

“You know,” Gemma whispers sleepily, her fingers idly toying with the necklaces around his neck. “I get scared, too, sometimes.”

He frowns, tilting his head to get a better look at her. “You never look it.”

“I don’t really think that’s true,” she says, ducking her head. “But it’s like, when the boat sinks. If one person freaks out, the other person just naturally gets their shit together enough to start scooping out the water.”

“You’re comparing us to a sinking boat?”

“You know what I mean.”

“Right,” Nick says, although he’s not entirely sure he does. “So, I’m a hysterical woman losing her mind in this rowing boat analogy of yours?”

“No, you’re the person I want to protect,” Gemma says, propping her chin on his chest and finally meeting his eyes. “I want to keep the boat floating for us, so maybe I don’t always let on how scared I am.”

It makes his heart kick in his chest; he prays she can’t feel it under her palm. “What are you scared of?”

“You know, the usual things. That I’m not pretty or clever or interesting enough for you. That people will find out about us and think I’m some pathetic fangirl deluding myself into thinking you like me, when really you’re just trying to get to my brother.”

“That’s actually mad, Gemma Styles.”

“I know, alright? I know. I just… the internet’s a horrible place. Can you imagine if someone saw us out together? Like properly _together_ together?” She bites her lip. “It’s not going to matter than I have a career of my own or that I’m a damn good writer or that I’m successful for reasons that don’t have anything to do with my brother or you — all they’re gonna say is I’m some sad, starfucking fag hag, or that our relationship is some fake cover up because you’re secretly with Haz, or that you can’t possibly be into me because I’m not a bloke.”

Nick doesn’t know what to say. She’s right, is the thing. He knows damn well how the world works for people like them. He’s read enough bullshit about how he’s only gotten where he has because of his friendships with Harry or Kate or Pixie. He’s had a hard enough time explaining his minor sexual identity crisis to his well-meaning, baffled friends — somehow he doesn’t think the Great British public or a million strangers on the internet are going to be as patient or understanding or kind about it.

“I like that you’re not a bloke,” Nick says, because at least that’s something he can control. “You wouldn’t look half as good in a dress if you were.”

“Still,” Gemma says quietly. “There’s just things I can’t give you, you know? Things you’re used to having.”

“What, emotional fuckery and endless drama? Thanks, I can do without.”

“I meant, you know.” She takes a deep breath, looking a little to the left of him. “Dick.”

“Dick?” Nick snorts. “I can make do without dick. I quite like what you’ve got in your pants, you know. Like, really quite like it.”

Gemma flushes, the pink in her cheeks lovely and unexpected. “But I can’t really fuck you with it, if that’s a thing you’re going to miss.”

Oh. _Oh._ Oh, oh, oh. There’s a thought. “There’s… well, there’s _ways_ , you know, if you wanted to do that.”

“Ugh.” Gemma hides her face in his armpit, groaning in what Nick delightfully suspects is embarrassment. He can’t help but smile. This is all _quite_ lovely. “Stop it.”

“You want to fuck me?” he asks, pressing on, strangely relieved to see her composure waver for once. If this is her freaking out in the sinking boat, maybe he can empty out the water for once. “C’mon, talk to me. And watch where you’re putting your legs.”

“Maybe,” she mutters against his bicep, maneuvering awkwardly back out of the dreaded wet spot. “If that’s a thing you want.”

“It’s a thing I want sometimes,” Nick says, trying to make her look at him. “Are you going to get a nice, big, pink, sparkly—”

“OH GOD, SHUT UP.”

He laughs, tackling her onto her back and pinning her flailing arms back against the mattress. “D’you want to fuck me with a strap-on, Gemma Styles?”

She bites her lip, her chest heaving slightly as she looks up at him with something like embarrassment or resignation, maybe something like arousal. Her breasts have flattened out now that she’s on her back, but her nipples are hard. She twists a little in his grip, testing his hold on her wrists. “Maybe.”

“I think that might be quite hot.”

“You wouldn’t laugh at me?”

“No promises,” Nick says, grinning down at her. He’s pretty sure they’d both have multiple and possibly contradictory feelings in the event she were to strap on a plastic cock. “You’re not seriously worried I’m going to like… change my mind about you because you’re not a bloke, are you?”

“Um…. no.”

Nick arches an eyebrow. “I googled it,” he says. “It turns out some people out there are just into people and they don’t fuss too much about whether they’re gay or straight or bisexual or whatever. Parts of the internet are very understanding of our predicament.”

“Sorry, you googled it?”

“Just a little. It’s very hip and trendy to just like whoever you like, and not have to call it anything. Maybe that’s just me now. I like whoever I like, and right now I like you.“

Her eyebrows knit together. “Do you think you could like any other girls, though?”

“I don’t know,” Nick says quickly. _Bisexual_ still feels like a big, scary word that he doesn’t want to think too closely about. “I think I like you too much to even think about fancying anyone else.”

“Fuck, Nick.” She twists out of his hold and sits up to kiss him, over and over and over again. “Same. Same, same, same.”

 

—

 

“I keep expecting you to ask about my intentions,” Nick blurts into the companionable silence of the kitchen the next morning, once Robin’s poured them each a cup of tea and opened the morning paper.

The sun’s just dipped over the horizon, though Nick’s been up since five. He watched Gemma sleep for a little while, before it all tipped from “possibly vaguely romantic” to “actual serial killer-type behavior.”

Robin looks up from an article on how the British economy’s tanking, pushing his glasses back up his nose. His brow furrows a little. “As long as they're some variant of ‘make Gemma happy,’ I don't think your intentions past that are any of our business.”

“Oh. Good.” Nick drums his fingers against the wooden table. Someone needs to acknowledge the elephant in the room. “Because... I think I really like her.”

“That’s okay, lad. You’ll figure it out.”

“I just. Yeah. Now would be a suitable time, though, if you were wondering when to pull a shotgun on me and warn me not to hurt her.”

Robin folds his hands over a picture of Theresa May’s face. “I would,” he says seriously, “but Harry’s said we’ve got nothing to worry about.”

Nick swallows thickly. “Harry said something about me?”

Robin shrugs. “Thinks you’re good for his sister, I think. Hasn’t always had the best luck with men, our Gemma. I think we’re all pleased to see she’s finally found herself a good one.”

Nick’s heard a lot of descriptions of himself over the years, ranging from flattering to ridiculous to cruel, but he’s never thought of himself as _a good one_ , certainly not someone who could be good for anyone else.

“I’m mad about her,” Nick blurts. “I wouldn’t hurt her.”

Robin just smiles at him, kind and gentle. He gets out of his chair at the sound of movement upstairs, flicking the kettle on and pulling out another two mugs. “You’ll figure it out, lad.”

Footsteps come down the stairs and then Gemma pads groggily into the kitchen, soft and sleep-mussed, in Nick’s T-shirt and a pair of baggy track pants. She slumps down on his lap and rests her head against his shoulder, making grabby hands at the kettle. “Tea?”

Nick wraps his arms low around her waist, linking his fingers to hold her weight. Somehow it all feels a little less anxiety-inducing now, now that they’ve mutually freaked out in a rowing boat and there are no shotguns around and Robin thinks he’s a _good one_. “Sleep okay?”

“Mm. A little cold.”

“Funny that, considering you stole _all_ the blankets.”

“Never happened.”

Robin puts a cup down in front of Gemma and messes up her hair on his way out with a second cup. “I’ll see if I can get your mum out of bed, poppet.”

Nick waits until he’s heard their bedroom door shut behind them before he leans in to nuzzle the back of Gemma’s neck. “So, I was thinking—”

“God, that can’t be good.”

“— _excuse you_ , Gemma Styles. I was thinking… instead of going back to London tonight, maybe we could drop into my mum’s for dinner.”

There’s a beat of silence before Gemma turns in his arms, looking down at him with a pinched, unreadable expression. “You want to take me home to Oldham?”

“We could drive back after, or we could stay the night in my old room. Up to you. It's just an hour's drive North, my brother and sister and niece might come ‘round as well.”

“You’re asking me to come to Oldham. To meet your family. Just like that.”

“You're freaking out.”

“You tosser, I am not freaking out.”

Nick grins at her. Maybe, between the two of them, they’ve got a fighting chance of keeping this rowing boat afloat after all. “It's okay if you're freaking out.”

**Author's Note:**

> [tumblr post](http://jiksax.tumblr.com/post/164145402794/if-my-love-was-a-sailor)
> 
> Title from ["Lula Boat" by Lotte Kestner](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=mL3TNrfEL9c). Also mentioned, ["idfc" by Blackbear.](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ZvU7PetX36Y)
> 
> [tumblr](http://jiksax.tumblr.com/) | [twitter](https://twitter.com/jiksax) | [email](mailto:ifckfairies@gmail.com?Subject=Hey%20girl)  
> 


End file.
